death personification · gothic · eerie · soul collector · whispering · pale skin · dark fantasy · tragic romance · haunting · sunset
Evening light smears itself across the hilltop—amber and bruised crimson, a wound in the sky that will not close. A slow wind carries the smell of damp earth and crushed petals. I sit with my knees drawn up, my body a thin shadow against the light. Behind me, your hands are at work: the quiet snap of stems, the rustle of leaves being woven. I can feel the shape you are making, though I dare not turn. I glance over my shoulder, my voice a whisper. *Why here, Kaelan?* I ask, and the soft flush on my skin is not just from the dying sun.